Simon Snow: Carry On, Baz
by rhien
Summary: Baz lives in every AU. Maybe. (Starting from "The Fifth Hare," in Rainbow Rowell's Fangirl.) Warnings: a little meta, a little crack, and a lot of sad. This story is all madamewhitecake's fault.
1. Chapter 1 - Prologue

It wasn't that Baz didn't _notice_ things. He had always been plenty observant, thank you very much.

Maybe it was just that Baz's life suffered from a sad lack of mortal peril before Simon. He didn't notice anything very weird until after the first hare incident, at Christmas break, sixth year. Till after he and Simon killed the Moon Rabbit.

He shouldn't really have been able to hold on to the beast—the way it thrashed about, the blood-slick fur—vampire strength or no, it was a little incredible. Especially as he had been far from full strength at the time. But desperation and adrenaline (and bloodlust) could account for a lot.

And after they killed the Rabbit, he rather immediately had other things to think about.

#

It wasn't _Baz's_ fault. Simon was the one who'd been _grabbing_ at him all night—Simon pulling on him in the boat (grabbing his cloak, shoving in so close that Baz had to shudder and slip back onto the dock _right that second_ before he leaned the wrong way, nearer to those intense blue eyes, before he pulled Simon even closer—and got decked in the process, no doubt); Simon taking his arm when the rabbit first fell out of the mural on the ceiling; Simon _holding his hand _in that faery-damned nursery, for Crowley's sake.

All Baz had done was fall asleep on the floor for a few minutes; he'd been tired, exhausted, practically starving after weeks without a decent drink, and though sleep didn't really solve the problem, he couldn't help it. And when he woke up, just a little later… Simon's hand was in his, alive and so warm and wrapped around his chilly fingers, and Simon was asleep, too.

This was certainly an accident, he told himself, very firmly, and only let himself count to ten before withdrawing his hand from Simon's. (If he counted a little slowly… no one needed to know that.)

It wasn't his _fault. _It wasn't his fault, a few minutes later, that he'd had to resort to vampire strength to stop that horror of a rabbit. True, at least he got a solid meal out of it, _finally_, but then he had to stand and turn and face Simon. A Simon who finally knew the truth.

When he turned around, covered with blood, dripping with blood, sated with blood, and threw the Sword of Mages at Simon's feet… he didn't really know what to expect. Shock. Horror. Accusation. Definitely some kind of righteous indignation. Possibly an attack. On second thought, he probably shouldn't have given Simon back the sword… it had been a reflex. A stupid, suicidal reflex, he scolded himself. But Baz felt so much better now, after finally getting to _drink_. Warm and strong, and all his senses tingling. I can hold him off, he thought.

Not that that would help in the long run.

Simon picked up the sword slowly, and wiped the gore off it.

Baz didn't know what to do. Fight back? Run away? Try to talk him into… what? He couldn't hurt Simon… he _wouldn't_.

That's ridiculous, he snapped at himself. You'll do what you have to.

He didn't know what to do.

It wasn't his fault that all Simon said was, "You all right?"

Baz couldn't speak. Not a word. He could barely lick his lips and nod.

"Good," said Simon, so sincerely; and he might just as well have punched Baz in the stomach—he couldn't breathe through the shock, shock so profound that he could think of nothing that could've forced him to move.

Nothing except for fire.

Obligingly, the dead rabbit burst into flames just behind him, and so he _had_ to move and they had to deal with the rest of that mess.

And then Simon kept acting so… normal. Suggesting showers and breakfast and generally behaving as if he did things like this all the time: Eating bread and apples on the kitchen floor, sitting right next to Baz. Fighting monsters together, like allies. Watching his roommate reveal himself to _be_ a monster.

Casually asking questions about that. Calm, _concerned _questions. And offering _help. _Like he cared. Like they were friends. Like they hadn't spent the last five and a half years tormenting one another incessantly, one way or another. Like Simon hadn't hated him since the moment they'd met.

"I don't hate _this_," Simon replied to that last part. "What you're doing—denying your most powerful urges, just to protect other people. It's more heroic than anything I've ever done."

This was nonsense, of course, from start to finish. Baz wasn't trying to protect anyone, except himself and his family. (_And Simon, _a stray thought whispered. Shut up, he told it.) But Baz didn't disabuse him of the notion. It sounded like… like….

Like he didn't think Baz was just a monster.

It wasn't Baz's fault that Simon had to go and offer to help him. Had to go and kiss him.

And Baz was tired from being up all night, but he didn't bother with disbelief or denial. There was no way that this was anything other than pure reality—Simon leaning into him with soft lips and scratchy jaw, the taste of cheese and apples in their mouths, his warm breath against Baz's cheek. So real that it was sharp, painful almost. Baz leaned in and sighed.

He felt like nothing in his whole life had ever been as real as this.

Then they heard footsteps on the other side of the kitchens, near the east doors, and they broke apart. Baz thought for one terrified moment that Simon would look horrified or disgusted. But instead Simon only grinned slightly, grabbed Baz's arm, and scrambled up, staying ducked down below the metal-topped prep islands. They managed to sneak out without Cook or any of her minions catching them. (Which was a really good thing, since Cook could hold a grudge forever, and there was a certain incident with a wand and a microwave that Baz knew she wasn't forgetting any time soon….)

And they managed to sneak back up to their dorm room, where Simon immediately proceeded to kiss him _again, _almost before they were through the door. This time no one walked in to interrupt.

A couple of hours and a nap and a ridiculous amount of snogging later, Baz lay on his bed, sun falling across his face, thinking idly of how they should probably get up, the Christmas Day feast and all. And how it all sounded like a terrible idea, if it meant Simon had to move out of his arms.

"But…." Simon lifted his head from Baz's chest and spoke suddenly, as if it had never occurred to him before, "you breathe."

"Ever observant," Baz said, but his eyes were closed and his voice was completely without edge.

"But—" Simon blinked, and splayed a hand out over the bare skin, right over Baz's heart. "And you have a heartbeat."

Baz could see where this was going now, but he was too lazy to do anything but nod. And listen to it, to his heartbeat, against Simon's warm palm. (_Enjoy it while you can,_ the back of his brain was telling him. Any minute now they'd start fighting again, or Simon would remember Agatha, or how much Baz despised the Mage, or… or something. It was always _something._)

"So… vampires aren't undead?"

Baz gave a gusty, dramatic sigh. "Too many horror films, Snow," he said, but he kept his tone only mildly bitchy, because Simon had grown up gandry—in the non-magical world, surrounded by non-magicians—and so it wasn't entirely his fault.

"You said you'd let me help you."

"I did," Baz had to admit.

"So—I need to know things, then."

Baz shifted, restlessly. "If you'd just listen in class…."

"Well, I thought I'd get it from the source. Original research," Simon said lightly, resting his chin on Baz's sternum. It poked, Baz squirmed; Simon raised up and moved a hand underneath as padding, still looking up into Baz's face.

It wasn't as if Baz had been raised with vampires or anything. Much of what he knew, he'd gotten from the same books as anyone else. And he didn't particularly want to talk about it; didn't even know how, to be honest—he had never discussed this with anyone. But he took a breath, and stared at the ceiling, and tried anyway.

"They're not undead. They're just… a type of magical creature. They… I'm not like a zombie, or a ghost. I breathe, I have a heartbeat, I grow. Get taller, all that. I'm not stuck as a four-year-old forever, thank Crowley." Simon was watching him, and trailing his free hand up and down Baz's ribs, lightly. It was rather distracting.

"I'm colder than normal," he continued. "I'm… strong. And fast. I heal quickly." His voice was getting softer and softer, and he closed his eyes. "I need to… to drink every few weeks at least, or I start 'looking like hell,' as you so eloquently put it earlier."

He felt Simon nod his head, then felt fingers touch his forehead, the drying sweat there, and then his lips. "I don't think you're cold."

You are clearly already biased, Baz thought, and shivered a little at the notion. _Really? Already?_

"And as for blood," Simon said, and his voice didn't stutter or hesitate over the word; Baz opened his eyes and looked at him, and saw a gleam in his eye, "want to help me hunt some more rabbits?"

Baz stared at him for a long moment, then flipped them over and kissed him as hard as he could, Simon laughing and protesting into his mouth.

It wasn't Baz's fault that Simon had to go and change _everything. _But Baz would be double-damned if he wasn't going to hold onto that change for as long as he could.

Even if it made his chest feel strange inside—unbearably soft, absolutely malleable.

When Baz was very small, he used to watch Nanny Trillian knit: the flicker of her needles, how one long string of wool became a sweater or a sock, a scarf or a shawl. His favorite part was when she made a mistake, or decided to redo part of a project. She would slide the needles out and then let him pull on the yarn, which would run back and forth down the fabric in a fascinating and strangely satisfying way, making a soft _thup-thup-thup _sound, unraveling so quickly into a pile of easily-tangled wool. And then slowly knit back up, rewoven into something new.

Inside, all down his core, he felt like that yarn, unraveling. And it was terrifying. But he decided to let it happen anyway.

And that _was_ his fault.


	2. Chapter 2 - Found Out

Of course, they couldn't keep it to themselves forever.

The last day of winter hols, Baz and Simon discovered that the sigil on the drawbridge turned out to summon a huge, rabbit-shaped water demon. They did finally manage to kill it, but not before its death throes flung Baz into the moat. The good news was that this washed off most of the blood (pale blue blood, with an aftertaste almost like salt-water taffy), and the merwolves left him alone for some reason.

He dragged himself halfway up the shore in time to see the water rabbit's body dissolve, oozing down into the slushy ground, and leaving behind something small and made of stone—a tiny bowl? Simon snatched it up and tried to help Baz clamber the rest of the way out of the moat, but tripped in the process and fell right on top of Baz, on the edge of the bank.

"Snow, if you could kindly refrain from trying to crush me to death…" Baz began, breathlessly, but Simon was laughing, and pulling Baz to his feet, and then tugging him closer by his algae-stained tie, and Baz quit complaining.

"I thought you said swimming in the moat was a bad idea?" Simon leaned closer, face tipped up, grinning. The tie was still wrapped around his hand. Baz, dripping wet and stinking with chilly, stagnant moat water, opened his mouth to answer, but another voice did it for him.

"It _is _a bad idea. A _terrible_ idea. How are you not eaten right now?"

It was Penelope Bunce, gaping at them, her cat-eye glasses glinting in the afternoon light. Penelope and—_dammit_—Agatha, too; both standing there in long, dark school coats, staring, next to a couple of suitcases. They must've come back early, on the bus from the village. And now…. Baz wondered how long they'd been standing there, how much they'd seen.

"First of all, what was that? Second of all, what was that?" Agatha gestured first to the ground where the rabbit had dissolved, and then to the two of them, still standing rather close together. Simon stuck his muddy hands in his pockets but did not otherwise move; it was Baz who stepped (he wouldn't say _flinched_) a little away.

"It was an _aqualapine_," said Penelope, because she never could resist answering a question. "But what was it doing here? They're not even from this plane—" She looked at Simon, looked at Baz, looked at Simon _and _Baz, and did _not_ answer the second question.

Baz almost wanted to laugh. Penelope already knew, did she? Or at least suspected. Well, he couldn't deny that she was clever. She had always been far and away his most serious competition when it came to marks.

But Agatha clearly wasn't stupid either, looking between the two of them, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her hand was clutching at the little shoulder bag she always carried—the one that held her magic mirror. As if she was tempted to draw it.

Baz looked steadily at her, and his wand hand twitched.

But Agatha nodded, once, then took the telescoping handle of her suitcase and pulled it after her, quickly, past them and over the drawbridge. Her blonde hair blew out behind her like a curtain of sunlight.

"Agatha," Simon began, and concern and affection were woven so densely in his voice that Baz's stomach dropped right out of his body, but she didn't stop or turn, just continued through the archway, into the fortress.

They all watched her go, and then Penelope looked at the boys, and after Agatha again. She sighed, scratched at her head (her red hair was done up in long braids wound around it), and took hold of her own suitcase. She looked at Simon and Baz and jabbed a finger in the air at them. "We _will _be talking about that _aqualapine,_" she informed them, and then headed off after her roommate.

Baz flexed his hands, willing them to relax. Simon heaved out a long breath, and Baz glanced at him. He looked so relieved—glad that nobody got cursed, most likely. Baz thought they could probably keep it that way. Now that break was over.

He had thought… he'd thought he'd have at least one more day, though.

He felt—as though his skin ached, but it wasn't as if he'd been injured, in spite of the water-demon. His throat hurt suddenly, felt thick and raw, but he swallowed it down, and figured he could at least finish all this with his dignity intact.

"Well," he said, and was pleased to find that his voice was reasonably steady, "that's that, then. It's been…." But he couldn't finish that sentence, or look Simon in the eye, so he turned towards the Veiled Forest, stuffed his fists into his pockets, and started walking.

For a moment he thought Simon would actually be sensible and leave him _alone_, for _once_, in all the time since they'd met, _just leave me alone, don't let's _talk _about it, just let me go sit in my tree and try to breathe, for Crowley's sake,_ but it was too much to ask, apparently, and after a few seconds there were footsteps rushing up behind him. Simon was protesting; Baz's ears were pounding and he didn't really hear properly. He wanted to cut Simon off, but his throat was hurting again and he couldn't quite speak, so he just kept walking, towards _his_ oak, his favorite, a few yards inside the edge of the forest, perfect for climbing, with the most wonderful wide branches and crooks for sitting in. (He'd found it his first month at Watford, and he visited it regularly. No one knew about it—except Simon, now. He'd shown it to him the day after Christmas. Like a gift. Should have known better.)

They were at the tree-line when Simon grabbed his upper arm, and Baz rounded on him, snarling. "What do you _want_, Snow?"

Simon narrowed his eyes at him. "What is _wrong_ with you?" Baz could feel his face twitch slightly _(where would you like to start the list?)_, but Simon didn't seem to notice. "Bill Butler _Yeats_, Baz, you're soaking wet, it's _cold_ out here, where on earth are you going?"

Now that Simon mentioned it… Baz realized he was shaking all over, no doubt from the chill of the water. Wet jumpers, even wool, could only do so much. He felt profoundly stupid, which only irritated him further. "Don't trouble yourself, Snow, there's no need to pretend you care anymore. Trot on back to the dorms and see your friends, there's a good chap." _Chap?_ And now he was babbling like some ancient school novel. Why couldn't he just shut up?

"What are you on about?" Simon looked completely bewildered, and if Baz sighed any harder he'd end up light-headed.

"Just," and Baz kept his voice as neutral as he could manage, "now that your girlfriend's back, you should go and greet her properly."

For one long moment, Simon gaped at him. Then he said, "Baz—she's not my girlfriend."

"What?" Baz's teeth were starting to chatter a little, and he wrapped his arms around himself. He felt as if he were trying to stop from shaking apart. Which was irrational. It's not _that_ cold, he told himself.

Simon eyed him, grabbed his elbow and dragged him over to the foot of a tree—_my_ tree, thought Baz, looking up—and pulled out his wand, muttering. In a moment he had summoned a pile of wood, and was frowning, trying to light it.

"Oh, let me," Baz groused, shoving him over a little, and lighting it himself; Simon would either take so long about it that Baz would freeze to death first, or burn down the whole forest in the attempt. You could never tell which with Simon.

The heat felt good on his stiff-cold hands and face, and Baz crouched, crowding closer to the fire than was probably strictly wise. He stared at the heart of it, at the glowing red beading across the bark, and did not look up, even when Simon said, "She's not."

Simon waited, then said, "Agatha. She's not my girlfriend. I mean, she's my friend, and she's a girl, but…."

Baz rolled his eyes, and turned to warm his back a little. "Oh, come off it, Snow." (Baz might refer to him as Simon in his mind now, but he never forgot to call him _Snow_ aloud.) "Everyone knows about the two of you."

"There's nothing to know—"

Baz scoffed. "What about the ball last year? And you spend every waking minute with the two of them…."

"Yet you're not accusing me of dating Penelope?" Simon sounded amused.

Baz waved a hand dismissively. "She's far too clever for you, Snow."

"Well." Simon clearly couldn't argue. "But still. We're not."

Baz turned around again, glared at him with narrowed eyes.

"We've never even been on a date, Baz," Simon told him, insistently. (_Neither have we_, popped into Baz's head. _Unless you count hare slaying._ But if that sort of thing counted, well, then Simon had probably been on dozens of dates with Agatha, and with Penelope too, for that matter.) "And we've never," here Simon blushed, "_kissed_ or anything. We're _not_ dating."

"Does _she_ know that?"

Simon didn't answer for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows and blinked at Baz. "Are you jealous?" Baz sneered. "You _are_," Simon said, but his tone was more wondering than mocking.

"Shut it, Snow."

"You are," said Simon, firmly. "But… I thought you knew. What, did you think I was cheating on her all this time?"

He sounded indignant, and Baz resisted the urge to rake his fingers down his own face. _Well, I tried not to think about it at all, you idiot, _he thought. It was one thing to _be_ a temporary stand-in, a short-term ally, a convenient snog, and quite another to _dwell _on the fact….

"'All this time' being a week and a half," was all Baz muttered aloud.

"Still," said Simon. "If you didn't care before… _did _you care before?" Baz clenched his jaw, refusing to answer on the grounds that he was _absolutely not_ going to talk about his own patheticness: that part of him couldn't have cared less, that as far as Simon was concerned, he'd take whatever he could get, for as long as he could get it; but he didn't have to admit it. Simon waited, but then finally said, slowly, "If you didn't care before, what's the big concern now?"

Baz turned his head and stared in disbelief. "Are you… are you really asking me, 'why now?' Because the hols are _over, _you brainless prat. Everyone else will be back tomorrow. And I thought… and your friends hate me, and mine hate you, and how is any of this possibly going to end well?"

"They don't hate you."

Baz looked at him skeptically.

"Only because you've always hated me," Simon said.

Without thinking, Baz said, "I don't hate you."

Simon grinned, wide, as if Baz had given the game away somehow.

Baz felt his cheeks burning, but pretended it was from the fire. "It doesn't matter," he said. "They'll help you with the rabbits now. You don't need me anymore."

Simon's grin fell. "Do you not want to help?"

"I—I didn't say that," said Baz, finally. He stared at the flames, where the wood popped and spit. "I just…." He swallowed hard, and kept his eyes on the fire, avoiding Simon's.

"Just what?"

Baz put his forehead onto his pulled up knees. "I just don't know if I can give everything up," he said, his voice a little muffled. "Even for you."

"What do you mean, give everything up?"

"Just… my friends. And my father—Crowley, if he hears about this… I don't know if I can…." _Why is my life is such a disaster,_ he thought. He looked up suddenly and fairly snarled, "And if you think that makes me a coward or a bloody weakling or something, Snow, you can get stuffed, you can just go f—"

"_Baz._" Simon reached over and grabbed the sleeve of Baz's jumper, and shook him slightly. Baz looked down at Simon's fist, clenched around the damp, dark green wool. He realized that he was almost panting and tried to take a few deep breaths. _I used to sneer and drawl at him when I got angry,_ he thought, unwillingly. _When did that change?_

"I don't want you to give up your friends," said Simon, carefully. "Why would I want that?"

The burning wood crackled. Baz forgot that he was avoiding Simon's eyes, and stared.

He had never thought that… this, whatever this was, whatever they had, if it was anything… well, he'd never thought it would exist at all. He certainly hadn't thought that it could exist outside the bubble of winter break, protected by the isolation, by getting to just be alone, without people around, _watching_ all the time. Saying, you're a Pitch, and he's the Mage's Heir, and what do you think you're doing? Even the people who knew him. Especially the people who knew him. The weight of what they thought they knew about him—sometimes it was like stones, around his neck, piled on his chest, crushing the breath out of him, burying him where no one could reach.

Simon just looked back, blue eyes clear and puzzled, gnawing slightly on his lower lip. "I mean," he said, hesitantly, "I can't say as I'm very fond of Malcolm."

Baz said nothing, but couldn't contain a wince. Malcolm Madder had been a bully ever since they were children, and he'd only gotten more vicious of late. He'd never been the most willing follower, either, and when this came out….

"Sorry," Simon said. "I really don't… Dev and Niall and Alan all seem all right. And anyway it's not… they're your _friends_. It's not up to me who you talk to, who you… tell things." He frowned. "I'm not going to force you to… to anything, Baz. And we don't have to let anybody know anything right now. If you don't want to."

"Too late." Baz jerked his head back toward the fortress, the drawbridge.

"It's just Penny and Agatha. They're my friends. They won't tell anyone anything if… if you don't want them to."

Baz took a deep breath, and ran a hand through his still wet hair, pushing it away from his face. "Maybe. Depending on how much they disapprove, I'd say."

"I'm not saying they'll be happy at first…."

Baz snorted. "Agatha certainly didn't look very happy."

"I'll talk to her." Simon shrugged. "I mean, nothing's certain, but I imagine they'll all probably get over it. Eventually."

_I don't understand you,_ Baz thought. How he could just shrug, as if it were light, the weight of all those people staring, the stones around his neck? _I don't know if I'll ever understand you._

Finally, Baz said, with a weak attempt at casualness, "I think Dev fancies Agatha."

Simon laughed. "Doesn't everyone?"

Again, Baz responded without thinking. "Not me."

"Not me, either," said Simon, with a funny sort of half-smile.

They sat in silence for another minute. The heat was making Baz's clothes stink with the moat water, a fetid, marshy smell, and they stuck to his skin unpleasantly. He stood and waved his wand, extinguishing the fire. It was time to go back to the dorm, and see if by some miracle his green-and-blue-mucked shirt could be salvaged.

They walked back, rather close together, their shoulders bumping every other step or so. Simon's pinky brushed the back of Baz's hand a couple of times.

"I do still need you, Baz," Simon said when they were almost to the drawbridge, so softly that it was almost a whisper.

Baz heard it, though, and said nothing, but he couldn't stop his breath from hitching in his chest. _Crowley, _he thought, gritting his teeth. _Crowley, Hennings, Yeats and Gunne, I am so doomed. _


End file.
